


A Touch of Glam

by thedarkmoon



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Cute!Adam Lambert, Gen, Glam Nation, Romanticism, gen_fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkmoon/pseuds/thedarkmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cami is a normal teen living in rural upstate New York. Her small town is conservative to the extreme: if you don't dress and act exactly like them, there's hell to pay. But when Cami's teacher, the evil Ms. Steiner, gives the class project about romanticism, Cami can't help but see the connections cropping up everywhere in today's musical industry. But when she brings up Adam Lambert, the "gay" King of Pop, how will she ever fit in again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Glam

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so. This is embarrassing, but I wrote this probably around three years ago, as an English class project. But, I figured, its worth some sort of cred on AOW3 cause it has a really happy ending. And, if I'm pushed enough, I'll write a sequel. :)

# A Touch of Glam

               

Romanticism is this whole concept of arts, and nature and the ideals of kinda magic, mystic ways. It was a drive away from the rational, very logical way of thought in the era before.

                So I was sitting at my computer, jamming away to _If I Had You,_ by none other than Adam Lambert, the most amazing, insane, eccentric rock star. Even though most people in my town, if they’ve even heard of him, think he’s unnatural and weird. He was too left and liberal for our town.

I was on the official “Glammy” site, checking out all the new costumes and sets for the Glam Nation tour. It said that Adam wanted everyone to paint their nails black in celebration, so I jogged to my bathroom and back to my bed, carrying the little bottle of black paint back with me.

As I brushed on the black polish, another thought crowded in amongst the thoughts of whether he’d come to upstate New York or not. Aren’t there traces of it here? (It being Romanticism)

The more I looked, the more I saw expressions of nature and individualisticness of it all. I mean, his lyrics are about love; his wardrobe was a canvas of different art and expression. And everything was done with a natural touch, not so glammed up that it was alien, it was half normal, half shock. It was very organic, very old styled. Yet different, still, individual.

It interested me enough to go along and examine other artists, like Michael Jackson and Lady Gaga. There it was, hanging in the lyrics, costumes, and music videos. And it was rather interesting to see that, interesting to see something from the 1800s still alive today, not in a museum or an Amish setting.

The next day, I was sitting out on a bench before school, bopping along to Adam’s _Voodoo_ , it struck me again, and I thought, _Well, there ya go, there’s last night’s homework._ All ready done, the stupid talk about how Romanticism is still here today.

While I’d been researching, yeah, it’d come to mind and poked its little weasely head there, but it hadn’t really sunk in yet. And that also meant I didn’t have to do it at lunch, so I had that free. Awesome.

Lit. class was right after lunch, third period. Ms. Steiner gave us a few minutes to “prepare” what we were going to say. Everyone got up and sat on desks, chatting about whatever, and Ms. Steiner returned to her game of solitaire on her computer.

“Hey Camillia,” Zoey, my best friend said, sitting next to me. She and I both loved Adam, and we ended up being a bit of outsiders at our school because of it.  She had a nicely typed paper in her hand.

“Hey Zoe.” I took a deep breath. “Were we supposed to type it? If we were I am so dead.”

She laughed and shook her head, “No, I’d be dead then too. This is just,” she waved the paper, “last night’s Glammy post from Adam. Wanna read it?” Adam had this cute habit of posting on the fan site after each show. It was often a story from his childhood, or maybe a recent revelation. As Zoe and I read it, I nearly choked.

It said:

Hey all ya Glammies out there. It was a great show in Maui last night. And I’m really happy to have scheduled this stop, and not just because of all ya great fans out there. There was just such peace while the band and I were there. We got to spend a little time touring the island, and it was so Zen or I guess you could say I was getting in touch with my romantic side.

                                                                                See you in Houston!

                                                                                                Adam

“Holy crap, that works totally perfectly,” I exclaimed. “May I borrow it?”

Zoey raised an eyebrow and nodded. Mrs. Steiner called the class to order, and I took the paper from Zoey. It crinkled in my hand and Ms. Steiner zeroed in on that.

“Camillia and Zoey, are we passing notes?” She waddled down the row between us, holding out her hand for the paper. We had only passed notes once in her class, but she always felt now that we passed notes. Because we painted our nails black and wore miniskirts over our jeans, she had always pegged us as trouble makers.

I burned bright red down to the roots of my blonde hair.

“No, no.” I hurried to explain. “It's part of my explanation for the project. I was letting Zoey read it.” I finished rather lamely. Her hand still beckoned for the paper.

Miserably, I handed her the paper. She wouldn’t understand the whole point of it unless I explained first. And then she’d take the letter too.

Her beady eyes swooped from side to side as she read the message. Her eyebrows rose higher and higher, finally coming to rest in her hairline as she finished.

All she said was, “I see.” And gave me back my paper. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Normally, it was into the shredder with it. Ms. Steiner waddled back to her desk, her eyebrows slowly coming back down to normal.

“Well, then, who would like to go first?” she asked, beaming at us. Zoey and I glanced at each other. Crazy old teacher.

A jock named Kyle stepped up to the front and proceeded to strut his stuff by droning on about something or other that I didn’t quite catch in the first ten seconds. He took like five minutes, after that no one volunteered. The class was looking from one another, trying to see who would volunteer so none of us would have to go yet.

“Why don’t you present, Camillia,” Ms. Steiner said, sickly sweet. I gulped and grabbed the paper, and headed to the front. I stared at my audience. Twenty pairs of eyes stared back at me.

“So um,” I started, then cleared my throat. I stalled, never having been much of a public speaker. But then I heard a little voice in the back of my head (it sounded a lot like Adam), and it said, “Come on, you’re a Glammy. This is a piece of cake, talking about something you already know.”

I took a deep breath and started, “Well, Romanticism hasn’t really gone away. It’s all about getting away from what’s typically thought in a particular time period. Like our culture of being conservative and having taboos in the 1960s. Its main medium now is music…”I talked about how it was shown in the typical music of the time, and then it goes back to rationalism, then back. It’s a tug of war, going back and forth. Then I got to the part I really wanted to talk about.

“My example from today is Adam Lambert.” I paused to let the groans pass, and then continued, “He’s very expressive and his lyrics get at some of the topics close to Romanticism. But, he’s also really close to nature.” I read the letter and it was quiet for a minute, then I said, “So yeah, any questions?”

The jock, Kyle, who was just being nasty, raised his hand and asked, “So wait; you’re saying because he and his, erm, boyfriend had a nice time that equates to Romanticism?”

I blushed a firious red and said quickly, “No, no that’s not it. See he was talking about getting in touch with nature.” I looked at Ms. Steiner for approval.

She nodded, to my surprise and said, “I feel, Mr. Smith, that you are misinterpreting Ms. Carters point. Thank you for the wonderful presentation, Camillia,” I blushed and said a soft thank you before darting to my desk, feeling pleased with myself.

After school, Zoey and I were walking home together. We walked along the country road in silence for a while, listening to the leaves rustle in the late September breeze.

“I would’ve never thought of that,” Zoey said, breaking the silence. I stared at her for a minute, confused.

“Oh, you mean Lit. Yeah, it hit me during _If I Had You_ last night. So yeah, it’s all thanks to Adam. Again.” Zoey chimed in with me on again.

“But it was so cool. You brought up someone almost everyone knew. That was a great idea,” Zoey said, awed and maybe just a bit jealous.

“So?” I said, “I wouldn’t have had a show without Adam. It’s amazing what Glam Nation gives us.”

“I know. I’ll see you tomorrow.” We waved, turning our separate ways, me down a dirt road to my house, her heading straight on.

My house sits on three hundred acres of land with my dad’s sister across the road and his brother just a bit further along. It’s really pretty in the summer, with green moss growing in the half light and seas of ferns here and there. In the winter it’s a frozen wonderland, with small ponds of ice to skate on and icicles hanging from the trees. Now, the leaves are turning gorgeous reds and gold’s.

The house itself was an old farmhouse with baby blue siding and a white trim. The shutters are faded and the one on the left hangs haphazardly on one hinge.  There’s a ramp instead of stairs so Grandpa has an easier time getting around.

My room isn’t too large, and its lime green walls might make it scary to some people, but I like it. Most wall space is covered in posters. One of Adam hangs above the pillows on my bed, inside the canopy.

I went over to my desk, skirting around piles of clothes and accessories, to my desk that slants like those olden day desks that scribes used to use. My dad had refinished it so that it was more of a mellow honey color, instead of severe dark brown. He also put and old fashioned desk lamp on top.

Searching through the drawers, I grabbed my clipboard and pencil, and then sat on my bed with my laptop in front of me, clipboard balanced on my lap.

“Come on you stupid thing,” I cursed as the computer decided that now was the perfect time to take it’s time updating Windows. Finally, after four reboots, it connected to the Wi-Fi and let me onto Adam’s Official site.

“Thank you,” I muttered sarcastically to it, scrolling over the icons, looking for the label I wanted. Perfect, his fan mail address. I quickly scrawled it across the top of the paper.

Dear Adam,

I owe you the hugest thank you. You totally saved me today. See in literacy we’re studying Romanticism and I had this whole amazing connection about today’s music and how it relates and is an example but, well, I probably wouldn’t have done as well without you having done that show in Maui. So there's another reason to be happy for going there. Your post was the best thing of all to read to the class.

                                                                                                Thanks again,

                                                                                                Camillia Carter

P.S. Sorry, but I have to do the whole fan girl thing: OMG, I love your work so much. It’s my favorite music ever, and it’s all I listen to if I can help it. Me and my friend Zoey are probably your biggest fans in Potsdam. Okay, I’m done now.

Before I could chicken out and not send it, I put it in an envelope and sealed it so I couldn’t retrieve it. I wrote the address as carefully as I could on the front and put a stamp on it, walking out into the now chilly September evening. I placed in it the mailbox just as I heard the crunch of someone turning off the main road. It was the mailman, so I darted back in the house, crossing my fingers that Adam read it.

People the next day were nasty about what I said in Lit., saying things like, “Why did you bring up the faggot?” and “He’s so gross, your parents actually let you listen to him?” I bristled at all the mean things they called him, but kept myself in check. I would not lose my temper to these people.

It was like Adam always said, you react, and you let them win. So I didn’t. They couldn’t win over my mind so long as I made that decision.

The week was long and grueling, but I made it through to the end of Friday. My mom said I could go shopping downtown so long as I promised her that I would text if I was going to be late for any reason.

I was in the middle of Hot Topic when a guy from my church approached me. I recognized him as Carson, a youth leader. He hadn’t been at youth for several months, so it was cool to see him again.

“Hey, you’re Camillia Carter, right?” I nodded, so he continued, “Word around here is that your Adam Lamberts biggest fan. Would you mind doing an interview for me? It’s for a documentary about Adam, all hush hush, you know. Wouldn’t want the natives getting too upset.”

I laughed and said, “Ooops, kinda already happened with something else. But sure, I’ll do that for you. Just let me text my mom that I’ll be late.”

The building he led me to was an artsy type building with lofts that were offices. It was warm inside, nice after the chill of the air. It smelled like cinnamon and apples. Looking around, I saw that the source of the smell was a candle burning in the corner.

“All right, Cami, lemme just go get my camera and then we’ll start,” Carson said, “Sit where you like.”

I sat on a white couch, running my hand over the soft velvet, loving the contrast of my black finger nails against the white.

Carson didn’t come back for a while, so I examined the room. It had another chair opposite mine, it was also white. The walls were a warm brown, and the floor was a burnt orange carpet. There was a window overlooking Potsdam, and lights were beginning to wink on in all the windows.

My back had been to the door, and when I heard it click open, I turned to see none other than the original Glammy himself, Adam Lambert, standing in the door way.

He flashed me a thousand watt smile and said, “Hey Camillia. I got your letter.”

After my jaw had finished dropping and we’d sat down, me on the couch and Adam sprawled in the chair, he said to me, “So, Ms. Steiner’s a good friend of mine. And she called up right after I got your letter, saying that her kids needed help with being more open minded.”

“Wait,” I held up my hand, “you know that crazy old woman? Who has been, for lack of a better term, making my life living hell?”

Adam smiled, “Yeah, believe it or not. She was much more, relaxed I guess, back in San Diego.  But she said that you were probably my best bet in starting this whole thing of getting kids to wake up and realize what’s going on. Realize their individualism. You wanna help me with that?”

It took me a second. My mind was still reeling from the fact that: Adam was here, in Potsdam, in the same room as me.

But the more I thought about this was my answer, my romantic calling.

“Yeah, I will. Yeah.”

_fin._


End file.
